The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [31]

Anger boiled through me. I should leave – storm from the house to the nearest bagnio. Find myself a wench who wouldn’t ask anything of me, wouldn’t expect anything of me save a coin or two. A merry, easy jade who would be grateful to share a bed, skin against skin in the night.

The candle fluttered then righted itself. Oh, God help me. I was coupled to the most infuriating girl in the kingdom. And I loved every damned inch of her. I closed my eyes, imagining her in the room below, pacing the floor and cursing my name. And crying, I thought, with a heavy heart. You’ve made her cry, again.

What if tonight were the night she grew tired of me? The night she realised that I’d only brought trouble to her door? Trouble and an empty pocket. I’d thought I’d lost her once before, and the grief had been intolerable. I would apologise tomorrow. We would begin afresh.

The candle burned low and flickered out.

I dreamed of Howard, drunk and raving in the moonlight. He screamed at me to fetch his wife, his lips flecked with saliva. ‘You are my friend,’ he cried. ‘You must help me.’ His lips pulled back into a snarl, his teeth yellow fangs sliding from his gums, his breath like rotting meat. He clawed at my shirt, shaking me, shaking me…

‘Mr Hawkins. Wake up.’ Sam’s voice, low and urgent. His hand was on my shoulder.

I sat up, squinting as he held a candle to my face. ‘Sam. What on earth…?’

Orange flame reflected in his coal-black eyes. ‘Murder.’

Kitty. I tore the blankets from the bed and sprang to my feet. Sam blocked my path. ‘Sleeping,’ he whispered, putting a hand to my chest as I tried to pass him. He pressed a finger to his lips then led me stealthily across the landing to his own room, unlocked the door.

The room was still, and black as ink.

A rustle in the darkness. The low creak of floorboards by the window. And someone’s breath, sharp and ragged. I backed away, thinking of my blade, so far beyond reach in the hallway, two floors below.

Sam raised the candle higher and the room came to life. A bed, a table covered in books of medicine and anatomy, the charcoal sketches pinned to the wall, a mirror… and a young woman cowering in a corner, blonde hair hanging wild about her face. Alice Dunn – Burden’s housekeeper. How the devil did she come to be in Sam’s room?

She stumbled into the light. I cursed and drew back in shock. She was covered head to foot in blood. Dark stains spread across her pale-blue gown. Thin streaks clung to her tangled hair. Her apron was smeared with gory trails where she had tried to wipe her hands clean. She looked as if she had walked through hell.

‘Dear God!’ I cried. ‘Are you hurt?’

She said nothing, too terrified to speak. Her eyes were wild. And fixed upon Sam.

He took a step towards her and her hand flew up. She was holding a dagger. The blade was thick with blood from tip to hilt.

Sam moved back, hands raised. Alice’s shoulders dipped, the knife wavering in her hand.

‘Sam,’ I murmured, keeping a close eye upon the knife. ‘Fetch some brandy.’

As soon as he’d left the room, Alice gave a sob and dropped the dagger as if it were burning her hand. It clattered onto the floor between us. It was as I’d guessed and feared. She was afraid of Sam. ‘What’s happened?’

‘He’s dead,’ she answered in a numb voice. ‘Mr Burden. He’s dead.’

Oh… this was ill news indeed. I reached down, slowly, and picked up the knife. My hand was shaking. It was a fine weapon, with a turned ivory handle chased in gold. The steel blade was sharp, six inches long. A handsome, vicious thing. ‘Did you kill him?’

She shook her head. She kept her hands stretched out away from her body, away from all the blood and gore.

‘How did you come here? Did Sam let you in?’

Even his name made her flinch. ‘It was him,’ she cried. ‘It was him. Oh, Lord. He’ll kill me too, I know it.’ Her body buckled and she sank to the floor.

‘Sit down here,’ I said, taking her arm and leading her gently to the bed. She clung to me, weeping silently. I studied her as the tears streamed down her face, searching for any signs of a fight. Burden was a mountain of a man – if Alice had attacked him surely there would be marks upon her body. Her wrists were circled with small bruises, a few days old, and there were more across her neck – four upon the left and one larger one on the right, just under her chin. Four fingers and a thumb. Someone had seized her roughly by the throat. Burden, forcing himself on her. Holding her down. I felt a sharp desire to find the bastard and knock him to the ground. And then I remembered – he was dead. Murdered.

Alice had no fresh wounds upon her that I could see – not even a scratch. The blood was all his.

Dread shivered through me. My neighbour – the man I had threatened only hours before, who had promised to testify against me in court – lay dead next door. And here was his servant hiding in my house, covered in his blood. If Gonson heard of this he would hang us both on the spot.

‘Alice – I know what Burden did to you… I’m sorry…’

She bowed her head for a moment, as if shamed. ‘What will they say of me?’ she asked, in a raw, broken voice. ‘He made me… I had to